Humbert & Lolita (by Arron and Beccy)
by Azzamonkeyman
Summary: This is our own take on the beautifully tragic story of Lolita. Each chapter is from the POV of both Humbert and Lolita. Humbert writes in his memoir from a prison cell, as we read the dead Lolita's diary entries. I shall be writing as the charming pedophile as my good friend Beccy writes as his cross country child-wife. NOW you get both sides of the story! Hope you enjoy it! R
1. Chapter 1

The house was nothing to be marvelled. I seem to recall the grandest thing about the old Haze household being the unloved grand piano which sat in a shaded and dusty corner of the living area. As Charlotte, God rest her tired soul, gave me a proud tour of the humble abode, Humbert was becoming more and more conscious of disembodied voices of young men in thick rimmed glasses, high waisted trousers, slicked back hair and a guitar over their shoulder, emanating from the adjacent room. I did not know of these young girls musical fancies through choice, but rather through necessity. Oh winged gentleman and gentlewomen of the jury, there was only one way to be certain of a brief encounter with a glowing nymphet in a record shop, and that was to be looking at the right kinds of records. Oh how gloriously it worked! Humbert did his research. Shame on Hum.

"Sorry about that racket." Charlotte smiled through somewhat clenched teeth, hurrying through to the conservatory to almost snap the black vinyl as she snatched it away from the needle. The young man's voice shuddered to nothingness, and I gulped. As conventional and tasteless as her decor may have been, she was evidently not as conventional in the way of music. So then who was?

She turned on her heels like a relaxing bull and exhaled through her nostrils in the same manner. Her plump face had gone all pink. "I can't stand that song. If I hear it one more time I swear I may just-"

"Kill-joy!" A young, angst filled voice echoed through the slightly open glass door directly behind Charlotte, and walking backwards carefully, still talking, she slammed it shut.

"How are you supposed to get a proper impression of the house when you can't even hear yourself think? Shall we move onto the kitchen?"

No Charlotte, the kitchen is your territory my Dear, not mine. The way she used the word "shall" was about as false and forced as her smile when an obnoxious singing began triumphantly and defiantly from the back garden, penetrating the glass which Charlotte had just closed in a desperate attempt to mute the faceless voice which was calling me towards it. Kitchen? No.

"I'm sure the kitchen is lovely, Mrs Haze, but I-"

"Please, call me Charlotte."

I learned my lesson. "Charlotte... you have a garden I see."

Good God forgive me for my taunting of the dead, but her loveable face at that precise moment of enquiry. If I had been able to photograph her face, oh jury what a laugh we may share! The glass conservatory, like a green house of sorts had been carefully sewn onto the side of her white picket fence American Dream house, a conservatory of glass through which I could see the large, green expanses of the garden in full bloom rather perfectly, and she looked at me as if to say, _"What garden?"_

I was not going to ignore that voice she was trying so hard to erase. I walked forth and into the conservatory, the warm afternoon sunlight hitting my chiselled face and no doubt making Charlotte swoon slightly. I could hear that angelically out of tune voice, yet perfectly happy voice singing a song I knew from my car radio. _'Heartaches'_ by Harry James. It had been number one in the charts for quite some time now. Queue the Orchestra, my trusty Judge. Conduct my sorrowful drum roll.

_Heartaches_

_Heartaches_

_My loving you meant only heartaches_

_Your kiss was such a sacred thing to me_

_I can't believe it's just a burning memory_

_Heartaches_

_Heartaches_

_What does it matter how my heart breaks?_

_I should be happy with someone new_

_But my heart aches for you_

I could hear her singing, that unintentional siren, imitating each and every instrument to the best, or worst, of her ability. Either way, Charlotte was silently seething. Her little plan was working nicely. Record player or not, this young mystery girl in the back garden, burning the back of my mind, draining my pen, eating away at my life, she was going to have music even if she had to make it herself. Humbert admired her resourcefulness.

I nodded my head to her well slimmed waist (large belts worked wonders) to roughly where she was hiding the door handle. The one exit from this fish tank of suburbia. "May I?"

"I thought you were a writer, Mr Humbert."

"I am indeed."

"Are you known for your gardening skills."

"Ah, Charlotte!" I remember distinctly putting a hand on her shoulder, because I remember distinctly the face she made. I might as well have been a Hollywood pinup. My magic touches always had a way with the women, and that meant it was one step closer to the daughters. "There is no better muse when it comes to writing than that of a hot breeze. With you for a moment, and then gone forever." This memoir proves it all too well.

Through hidden, yet gritted, teeth she smiled and stepped aside obediently. I thanked her politely and opened the door, and instantly the invisible fingers of Summer were running through my dark brown hair. I inhaled the smell of virgin white lilies with their crisp clean sheets and yellow erections. It was a beautiful day, filled with beautiful new sights and sounds. I walked out onto the freshly mowed lawn, the green grass and decapitated daisies. How wonderful a job her Negro maid had done! I had finally met my match when it came to mowing the lawn.

And then, like those archaeologists stumble upon the legendary tombs of glorified Egyptian Queens, I finally gave that rebellious little singing voice a face, and I could not have envisaged a better face to lay my sinning eyes upon. The sun, like a spotlight upon a stage, shone through the apple trees and bathed this divine and most flawless specimen of a nymphet in a heavenly haze. Dangling a delicate white sock loosely from the end of her raised foot, she lay on her stomach (Oh how I envied the grass beneath that body!) and quite innocently read a magazine, her roaring one girl chorus now a gentle humming. Her exposed bronze back welcomed me to her garden of Eden, the childish curve of her spine and raised shoulder blade. The plump roundness of her young behind and the golden brown locks that fell down over her shoulders, masking her face from me. She began to kick her legs behind her, her heels hitting her bottom like one of those show girls you see in a Vegas Casino, wearing a fanned feather hat and little else, other than sequins and promises. Suddenly, the shield of hair dividing myself and this beautiful little nymphet was swept aside as this thief of my heart swung her head round sharply to spy on the looming stranger in the expensive suit who was gazing at her adoringly. Instead of doing what most nymphets do, which is to grimace and run away, she did the most unforgettable thing. She smiled. She smiled at the awestruck Humbert and showed off her dazzling white teeth and shining silver braces.

Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, I had finally spotted the creature in her natural habitat after hearing her mating call. By now she was being watched by an angry Charlotte, who stormed over with intent and snatched away her magazine like it was something infectious. If it was, it was most certainly infecting me.

"Humbert, this is my daughter, Dolores." She could have sounded a little less... depressed.

"I told you Mother dearest, it's Lolita! I'll never be a star with a name like _Dolores_." She shook her head in distaste at the sound of her birth name and swiped her magazine back audaciously.

Not wanting a full blown confrontation to begin in front of myself, Charlotte allowed her to read the glossy magazine, as difficult as it was for her to give into her daughters wishes. "Well, at least say hello to Humbert. He might be staying with us here. Our first customer!" Charlotte gave me a hungry kind of look. Money-hungry I hoped.

"Humbert?" She asked, thinking for a moment. "Maybe Dolores isn't so bad after all." A slight giggle, and butterflies came to life inside of me. Oh mock me again you teenage temptress! You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?

"Dolores!"

"Can I call you _Hum_? That's a swell name for a man of such distinction! I'm good with nicknames."

"I'm sure Mr Humbert does not-"

"You can call me whatever you like, Lo." I smiled, smitten as a pampered kitten. Charlotte had been silenced. Lolita pondered on something again in the forbidden expanses of her young prepubescent mind.

"_Lo_, huh? I like that!" And then the widest brace-faced grin I had ever seen appeared. "Thanks _Hum_!"

Pet names already? Lolita, you tease. You completely shameless tease! How powerless I was to your advances.

Charlotte produced a cigarette from her purse and placed it between her thin pink lips before walking away in defeat. She called on me over her shoulder like I was a lapdog, and said something about how I just _had_ to see her new water feature.

Lolita rolled her eyes once again and stuck out her tongue with disgust. "It's a revolting thing. She only got it to impress the neighbours."

"Oh I see." Her American accent, the way she carried herself even when laying down, the fact that from this safe distance I was completely entranced.

"So you might be staying with us?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm most certain that I am."

Something in the way I spoke made my Lo turn her head around slowly, peering at me with one eye, the other silvery blue gem hidden by her luscious locks. Her sun-kissed nose twitched slightly, and she wiggled her toes, and all at once that loose sock which had been holding desperately onto her foot slipped off and landed on the grass silently. "I'd jump back in your flashy car out there and drive off to the next town if I were you, Hum."

"And why is that?"

"My Mother can be a little bit... overbearing." Impressive use of vocabulary. Humbert was pleased! She lifted her soft hand, placed her thumb and index finger on her glistening bottom lip, licked them gently, and then used these fingers to turn the page of her magazine, and all the while I could feel my trouser crotch stiffening. A tempestuous sensation boiling away inside of me, my eyes transfixed, my jaw no doubt on the floor. She shrugged those brown shoulders; smooth and unhidden by the black dress with white polka dots she wore. "Dunno why you'd want to stay here."

"I have my reasons, Lo... I have my reasons."

It was the most humble of beginnings for poor Humbert, and in retrospect my only regret is having not listened to Lo's advice. But how was I to resist such a beautiful nymphet when men such as I who are powerless to their mannerisms and voices and visual splendour? And after all, with a name like _Lolita_, how was I ever going to be able to say no?


	2. Chapter 2

I was first alerted to his presence by the soft squelch of the well-watered grass under his feet. I continued to flick through my magazine, half-aware that he was still standing there. I could feel his gaze on me, and began to kick my legs slowly behind me. With a flick of my hair I turned towards him; surveying him from head to foot.

He wasn't a tall man. Stocky, maybe. I could see the faint bulge of chest muscles beneath what was an obviously expensive shirt, but he didn't seem to be particularly muscular. His grey suit sat in stark contrast against his pale skin- he was really very pale. My eyes travelled to his face, where a conspicuous redness was spreading over his white cheeks- this amused me somewhat. I liked the idea of making a grown man blush.

I grinned at him, and the side of his mouth twitched slightly into a strangely sad smile. He seemed unperturbed by my brace, which I had always felt looked too conspicuous in my mouth. He was staring at me- truly staring- and he still had that odd smile on his face. He was distracted when my mother stormed towards us; breaking our connection. I scowled at her as she snatched my magazine away. She never could bear for me to be the centre of attention.

After a short altercation I retrieved my magazine- my mother didn't want me to show her up; not in front of this peculiar guest of hers. I could see the way she was looking at him- her eyes were shining with barely-suppressed desire. She must have thought I was oblivious; but I noticed. I always noticed the way she looked at men- and although this specimen wasn't particularly attractive, I could understand his strange appeal. She gazed at him; her face betraying her desperation. It was almost sad, the way that she batted her eyelids and puffed out her chest like a tropical bird at the zoo. Despite his unremarkable appearance, I sensed that he noticed her stare. I sensed his discomfort.

Tearing her eyes from the curious visitor, she turned her gaze back to me. "Well, at least say hello to Humbert," she said- her voice betraying a hint of impatience. Her eyes were back on him. His eyes were back on me.

"Humbert?" I clarified. I repeated the name slowly, amused by how the unusual syllables felt as they rolled from my tongue. I couldn't help but giggle- his name was such a novelty, and I was hopelessly fond of novel things. I had always hated my own name: Dolores. A name for school teachers and fat old spinsters. Nobody called Dolores ever became a star. But Humbert? That was even worse- a positively laughable name. It made me re-evaluate my own, and he smiled as I voiced this thought.

"Can I call you 'Hum'? That's a swell name for a man of such distinction! I'm good with nicknames."

I was warming to him already- mother tried to tell me off, but Hum just smiled his one-sided smile at me. "You can call me whatever you like, Lo," he replied softly. Lo? I liked that. Lo was a novel name, too- like Humbert. Lo and Hum. Mother didn't seem to like our chat; she was fidgeting with a cigarette, which her tightly clenched lips held in a vice-like grip. She mumbled something and wandered off- seemingly with the intention of leading him off with her. He didn't go.

"So, you might be staying with us?" I queried, turning back to my magazine.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm most certain that I am."

Something in his tone made me turn to him; surveying him once more with interest. I peered at him from behind my hair, and he held my gaze. I twitched my nose, but it didn't distract his eyes from mine. There was something about the way he looked at me that made me feel as though I was the only thing he could see- or perhaps the only thing he wanted to see. It was curious for me; my mother usually looked past me as though she didn't want to see me at all. I told Humbert about her, and about how he ought to skip on over to the next town if he knew what was good for him.

"Dunno why you'd want to stay here."

He closed his mouth and gulped, and I noticed his jaw tensing. I had a distinct sense that he most certainly didn't know what was good for him. He carefully dampened his lips with his tongue before speaking again.

"I have my reasons, Lo… I have my reasons."

I did not know, then, what his reasons were- but I suspect that even if I had, I would have acted no differently. How could I deny this man, whose gaze made me feel like the starlet I so desperately wanted to be? And so, on that first day, my life and his became irrevocably intertwined in ways that neither of us could have known- and that neither of us could ever have escaped.

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	3. Chapter 3

It did not take me long after my first encounter with that angelic creature in the Garden of Eden to decide I would indeed be lodging at the Haze household. It was not the most splendid of homes, but it homed the most splendid of sights, and now, with my peaceful retreat at the top of the house, I could watch secretly from the top landing like an old bird of prey, my dearest Lo dancing around in her polka dot dresses and mismatching socks on the landing below. The stair-rails creaked as I leaned against them, glancing down at the bronze haired beauty as she jerked her body and imitated a 1920's flapper she had seen in movie once. The floorboards groaned in the middle of the night as I tip-toed into the hallway and groaned silently, my ear pressed to the cold, dark floor, listening to the dull roar of Lolita's snoring. A most ungraceful and childish thing, but I adored her all the more for it. Her imperfections made her perfect. She knew her flaws, and she used them to her advantage. Oh I could not count how many times her distracting braces had caught the streaming sunlight and dazzled me like tiny little camera flashes.

Her Mother however had no flaws. That's what she liked to think. Truth be told, she was a most obnoxious, overbearing, nosy and controlling cow. She was not my favourite person, but she seemed to like me more than I wished she would, and she made the most delightful scrambled eggs. I could not complain. Little did she know that behind my slow boyish smiles lay a cesspool of rotting monsters and personal demons. Monsters that were after her Lolita, and demons that wanted Charlotte out of the way for good.

Killing Charlotte? It was a drastic and quite unthinkable thought. Well, unthinkable to others perhaps. For Humbert it was a thought none the less, and when something crosses Humberts mind it is hard to get rid of. Thoughts are thought because they must either be paid attention to or acted upon. Never in my life have I ever had a thought that was unnecessary or trivial. My mind is a useful, fascinating, endless and most colourful place that you must all think yourselves lucky to be entering. If only my Lo had been as grateful. However, like all great minds, there are cobwebs and shadows and places that are off limits to even the most trained of psychiatrists. If they had done their job properly instead of diagnosing me as a homosexual insomniac, I would not be jailed and Quilty would not be dead. On the other hand, if they had diagnosed me correctly, I would be in a padded cell and would never have met Lolita. However, in saying that, if I had never met Lolita I would not have known what I was missing. I would have been a hungry predator still longing for perfection in his padded room and belted jacket. This memoir will be the revealing of these shadowy places. Brace yourselves ladies and gentleman of the jury, not even I am ready to reflect upon Lolita's crimes against my poor, undefended and easily-won heart.

I remember one particular Sunday afternoon in the Haze household. I know it was a Sunday as Charlotte was off out to church. I was not, am not and will never be a church-goer, and little Lo was complaining of stomach aches. Doctor Humbert to the rescue!

"I'd rather stay here. I feel iffy." She coughed loudly, intentionally. "See? I might be contagious." I sat behind my newspaper trying not to laugh. Charlotte was not as impressed.

"Come on Dolores, you _have_ to come. You've not been to church in weeks. People will start talking. The Farlows are already beginning to think you're sacrilegious or something."

Oh, Charlotte. Oh my.

"Well, I'll go next week, how does that sound? I'll prove to them all I'm not the spawn of Satan. I'll wear my Sunday best with pigtails and everything!" Lo gave her sweetest most innocent looking smile. Charlotte saw it, ignored it, and turned to face the grand oval mirror in the hallway to fix her lipstick and tightly fitted jacket. "Please?"

"Well I suppose you would just spend the whole time whining and fidgeting."

"Exactly! I'll stay here and whine and fidget with Hum."

Oh will you now? Down Lo, down girl!

"I hope you don't mind, Hum."

Behind my newspaper, I was thanking the Lord for some alone time with my Devil horned Saint. I peered over the front page and shook my head calmly. "Not at all. I'm sure I'll manage."

"Of course he'll manage, he's a teacher! Now go, Mother, or you might miss the gossip before the gospels!" She speak with exaggerated and sarcastic horror, imitating a nasally friend of Charlotte's whom I hated with a burning passion. She was a lovely woman I'm sure, but her voice made me want to drown my sorrows in the bathtub.

Charlotte was practically being chased out of the door by her clearly loving daughter. "I won't be long Hum, I'll be back around 2! I'm having tea and cupcakes after Church with Jean Farlow."

Church had an after-party these days? Only in America assumed a content Hum as he read of the latest deaths in the obituaries. I waved politely as she left. "Have fun, Dear."

She halted at the front door, hovering upon my last word, hanging onto it lovingly. "I will, honey!"

"No you won't." Lolita killed the mood as she done so often and shut the door firmly in her Mother's face. With the door shut she stood for a moment, resting her forehead on the white varnished wood, listening for her Mother's clicking heels to disappear down the porch, along the gravel drive and drive off down the street. When she was satisfied that her Mother was indeed gone, and I had seen the car drive past the window, Charlotte waving enthusiastically and carelessly at me, Lolita turned around on her heels, looked at me from the hallway and said, "She's about as religious as a potato."

I could not help myself. The most care free and natural laughter erupted from within me, like the most pure and painless volcano. Charlotte never laughed at her Lo's immense humour and way of speaking, whereas I found it most entertaining. Lo liked this about me, and with my eyes shut and my laughs filling the room, I did not see my darling nymphet advancing towards me. Before I knew it, there a movement beside me, and I placed down my newspaper to turn and see Lo sitting by my side on the sofa.

She smiled at me briefly, twitching her nose, and then picked up a magazine from the coffee table. I was wise enough to know her game by now. She always did this. It was a ritual of hers. Something her sweet little mind liked to play on me. She would retrieve her glossy magazine about the latest fashion trends and pimple removals from the coffee table, or the floor, wherever she last dropped it, and I would have my headlines and obituaries, and whatever way I sat or held my paper, she would imitate me. No matter what I did, her perfectly childish body and childish laugh and childish everything copied me. It was this game that made me aware of my tic nerveux. I glanced at her one day, in fact, I do believe it was the first time she played this trick on me, and she had never sat so close to me before, and her Mother was cooking in the kitchen, and I wanted to do unspeakable things to her with a pillow over her mouth so not to disturb her mother. It would be a shame if the vegetable knife should so suddenly slip. But this day in particular as she played the game, I decided to try and outdo her at her own cruel sport, and I crossed my legs up on the couch, uncomfortable for a man of my age and stature, and after down this, I held my newspaper upside down and looked up to the ceiling. Bewildered, her greyish blue eyes looked me up and down, took a mental photograph of my current state, and imitated me. She howled with laughter as she processed the scene.

"If those men in the white coats who look after Mrs Darkbloom across the road came in right now, we would be locked up for sure!" Her giggles continued, and eventually she could no longer hold the position. My long, hairy, toned, masculine legs took up so much room, and so Lo thought it appropriate that, since she had such little room on the sofa now, she would raise herself up, move herself along some 10 or 15 inches, and perch herself onto my knee.

Dear learned reader, I cannot describe to you the exact emotion Humbert felt as her soft, plump derriere dropped down onto my strong lap, but I can only say that every single object in the room which was reflecting the early afternoon sun seemed to suddenly radiate and erupt into a million thousand tiny fragments of nothingness, and the couch ceased to exist, and the floors and walls vanished and the street disappeared, and all of a sudden, it was just Lo and myself. Myself and Lo.

The innocent looking schoolgirl Dolores thought nothing of what she was doing, but I knew that my secret nymphet Lolita knew of my gentle genital sensitivity and was now playing off my very weakness. Oh how wicked of you, evil teenage temptress! But not teenage just yet. Not then she wasn't. The younger she was, the longer I had.

With her magazine still in her hands, and my crotch beginning to blossom, I suddenly realized that I had fallen dumb and deaf, for Lo had been staring at a page in her magazine and speaking to me, asking me something.

"Pardon?"

She turned around, shifting positions on my lap, shifting the position of my pen in which she would be the muse to my life story. Ink was already dying to be released onto the pages of our potential love story, but right now I tried to be as discreet as I could be.

"Well, Hum-" She began slowly, and was unable yet again to get comfortable on my lap, moving around like a monkey with fleas. Her behind rubbed my manhood in every direction and I almost groaned onto the back of her neck. "-This man in my magazine has a most peculiar moustache."

I glanced over her shoulder and examined the black and white photograph. He did indeed. It was Salvador Dali, buried up to his neck in sand, eyes wide open, his moustache twisted tightly into points with flowers at the end.

"How did he get flowers into his moustache?" She asked, so sweetly, so curiously. However, the way she then proceeded to turn around and face me, straddling me like a small whore. There was no denying now the erection standing to attention, compressed under my suit trousers and rump.

Oh, Santa. How do you manage?

"Well-" I swallowed the lump in my throat. Keep going Hum, ignore the trickle. "I believe he must have used wax to twirl his moustache, like so." I demonstrated, pretending my darling Lo had a moustache, and I used this ploy to stroke her face. I tickled her nose. She twitched it. "And then, before the wax set, he placed two little flowers here-" I tapped one rosy cheek, "-and here." I tapped the other. She was blushing. Well done Humbert. You still had your magic way with the nymphets.

She turned around again to look at the photo, repositioning not only herself, and this time I am almost certain I did moan. It was hard. It was hard not to.

"Geez, What a creep!" She began to giggle hysterically. I don't know what it was that set her off, be it what she said, what she saw, what she felt, but for some unknown reason my delightful little bare limbed, shoulders exposed, hair in a ponytail Lo began to roll around and thrash her legs, and move up and down my crotch, laughing out loud like nothing I had ever heard.

Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, I can only say that I did my best to stop her. Truly I did. I put my hands on her ribs to move her off of me, as I could feel the fire in my loins burning too hot for even my liking, and with my hands on her body she was under the impression I was trying to tickle her. She fought back, placing her hands on my stomach and moved her fingers vigorously. A sensation like butterflies rose within me. Butterflies that I wished I could catch, keep in a jar forever, alive and fluttering, and relive the feeling over and over again.

And then, the unthinkable happened. Her laughs heightened, my foetal position was no source of defence from her endless attack, my cries and moans and groans worsened, the stiffening was almost painful, and when it all seemed to be reaching that point... the phone rang.

Lo was on top of me. I was under her. The phone was in the hallway, and as soon as it sounded, she was gone in a flash to answer it.

"Hello, this is Dolores Haze speaking, how can I be of assistance?" She spoke in her best grown up voice. How awkward her limbs looked in proportion with her body. Her legs that didn't know what to do with themselves. Her hair a static mess. Her dress riding between her cheeks. She had her back to me as she twirled the phone wire with her finger and made appropriate noises in response to the person on the other end of the phone. The way she twirled that wire was reminiscent of the way a blonde bombshell plays with her hair, knowingly seductive, yet deceptively subtle.

I lay on the couch, panting like a sick dog that had been left out in the sun and played ball for too long. My stomach felt like I was just stepping off of an intense rollercoaster, and my life felt as if it had been spiritually cleansed. Desires, stress, tension, anxiety, all gone. All gone with one quick shock. A shiver up the spine and a buckling at the knees. Like giving blood. It hurts, sometimes, but it has to be done, and it's over before you know it, and you feel so much better for doing it afterwards.

I stood up, my hands in my pockets, hunched over slightly, trying to lessen the significant lump in my trousers by pulling my pockets forward. I rushed out of the living room and into the hallway, a thickness crawling down my inner thigh, when Lo stopped me.

"You alright, Hum? You're walking kinda funny."

"Yes. I have cramp. That's what I get for having a large breakfast and a tickle fight all before noon."

She pouted her lip sarcastically, "Oh you poor old man." And winked. "Maybe I should be calling the men in the white coats after all."

"Yes..." I began to venture up the stairs again, thinking of a nice cold shower. "...perhaps you should."


	4. Chapter 4

I think I can recall the very first time Hum and I shared the pleasure of a truly intimate encounter. We were playful, for sure- flirtatious, even- but nothing of note happened at first. Not compared to what was to follow.

The more time I spent around our new lodger, the more I began to doubt some of my initial thoughts of him. The longer I spent inspecting his face; the more I became sure that he was not plain at all, but more than usually attractive. Not in the conventional way of the movie stars pinned to my bedroom walls- but in his own way. In the refined and subtle way of an English writer- or a poet, or a philosopher... or a lover.

I sought to spend as much time with him as possible, and my motives were not necessarily impure- simply an attempt to live out my twelve-year-old fantasies. With any other man, my attraction to him would have been a mere passing fancy- an amusement to his sensible self. But Hum was not sensible enough, and I was not innocent enough, and together we created a situation that was never meant to be.

One fine Sunday, a rare opportunity arose- leaving Humbert and I entirely alone. Our previous interactions had come from stolen moments when my mother had gone to answer the telephone or to make coffee. The exchange of a tense look; skin briefly brushing skin; the meaningful sound of a deep, shaky sigh. We chatted and played and laughed- but all under my mother's careful supervision. Never were we alone for more than a fleeting moment.

However, this particular fateful Sunday I had no desire to go to church- and being only superficially religious herself my mother allowed me to stay home. Someone as vain as she always was would never miss church and give fodder to the gossips- especially not with this mysterious new man sharing her home. So she went, with only a little persuasion- and finally left dear Hum and I alone.

I went to him in the sitting room and perched beside him on the sofa- thinking myself terribly grown-up and subtle as I shot him a flirtatious look. We played as we always did- a most juvenile game of copycat; and it made us both laugh. He had the most wonderful laugh- it was deep and real and void of any sense that it was bitter or forced.

Upon hearing this, I took a chance and shifted myself all the way onto his lap. I wriggled and giggled and made myself quite comfortable before snatching up my open magazine from the coffee table and pointing out a particularly interesting feature about Salvador Dali.

"That Dali sure seems like a hoot," I said, indicating a photograph of the artist with his iconic moustache adorned with blossoms. "Now how do you suppose he got those flowers to stick to his moustache like that?"

I looked back at Humbert's dear, distracted face, and in the silence that followed I became aware of the soft pressure of his swollen member under my thighs and the strange feeling in my stomach that accompanied being so intimately close with his genitals. I knew- in theory- what seemed to be happening between our bodies, but of course I had no real idea of how it was supposed to feel. I liked how his body gently pressed against my own, and how it evoked feelings in me that I had never experienced before. At the very basest level, my budding pre-teen sexuality simply told me that I didn't want the feeling to go away.

Humbert blinked a few times and turned to me. "Pardon?" he said, with a drowsy smile.

I shifted myself once more as I repeated my question, feeling his warm breath on the back of my neck as I rather conspicuously rubbed my backside over his now undeniable erection. He answered me with almost admirable restraint- but I didn't want that. I had a taste of this now- of teasing him- and I wanted to see how far he would let me go, so I began to wriggle much more deliberately.

A strained moan escaped his parted lips and sent me into a fit of giggles, rolling around uncontrollably in his lap at the pure hilarity of the situation. It was just so terribly amusing to me that I could turn such a dignified man into a groaning, red-faced creature just by sitting in his lap. Were all men so easily manipulated?

The more I moved, the louder his protesting groans became- I do believe he even tried to move me from his lap once or twice, but to no avail. His hands settled on my waist, and I let them stay there as he doubled over and tried to suppress his moans. Like the crescendo of an unconventional orchestra he threw his head back onto the sofa cushion at the precise moment that the telephone began to ring out in the hallway.

I leapt from his lap as the shrill ringing rudely interrupted our blissful contact. I ran to answer it- it was nothing of note, and even if it had been the words were flowing straight into one ear and out of the other. My ears were focused on the sound of Humbert panting in the next room, and my mind was distracted by the strange cocktail of unfamiliar feelings I was experiencing.

In some ways, it felt beautiful- Humbert's hands on me made my stomach twist and turn in ways I hadn't thought possible. I was flustered and hot and strangely proud to have reduced lovely, dignified Hum to a panting wreck on the sofa. However, I also felt somewhat ashamed- even though I couldn't quite place why. Why should it have been shameful to get so close to someone you're drawn to, and to feel what I felt coursing through me? Yet I still had the unshakeable feeling I had done something terrible; which just made the whole incident somehow more titillating.

Humbert shuffled out of the sitting room with his hands in his pockets- like a coy schoolboy- and I put the phone down on the sideboard. He moved to walk past me to the stairs, but I stuck a foot out to stop him and asked if he was alright. After all, he was walking in an awfully strange manner.

He mumbled something about cramp and sidled round me to get to the base of the stairs. He began to climb, and shot me back a quick, bewildered glance- and although I doubt he even realised that he was giving himself away, in that moment I saw it. He had looked at me like my mother so often looked at him. Humbert _wanted_ me.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlotte told me the heart wrenching news one hot day at Hour Glass Lake. I most certainly viewed the lake as an hourglass, as I spent every visit there sitting on a towel, counting down the minutes until we left, or trying to decipher how long I could stand our obnoxious company before feeling my twitch begin. Charlotte, in a black, skin tight swim suit, her not exactly fat, but not exactly slim body looking like a clumsy seal as she attempted miserably to swim elegantly in the water.

Jean and John Farlow accompanied us to the Lake on several occasions, and today was one. They were the kind of picturesque couple that everyone envied, despite their forced smiles being as fake as the pearls around Charlotte's neck. They were the kind of young, attractive couple that everyone envied and wished they could be, but behind closed doors you secretly knew that they smashed plates against the floor during heated rows, followed by wild passionate sex.

I could see right through them. Nice try Farlows, but Humbert knows you all, and none of you know Humbert, and when Humbert sits there on the edge of the pier watching you all swim, he is not "thinking up poetry" or "planning on proposing to Charlotte." Humbert is, in fact, judging you all incredibly harshly. Shame on you Hum, shame on you!

Charlotte swam in the Lake like a mermaid with cramp, but endearing none the less. She had a grin and rosy cheeks that I imagined her Lo would have when she reached 40. I shuddered then, and still do now, at the thought of my beloved nymphet aging a single day let alone 3 decades! It was enough to make my skin crawl. Charlotte did in fact look like Lo when she was younger. I had seen photographs, and they bore a striking resemblance, Charlotte's hair being perhaps more blonde.

"You not joining us, Hum?" Jean asked chirpily as she emerged from the bushes with John, claiming that they were going off together to see if the apple tree they had planted several months before was making any progress. I knew all too well what they were _really_ doing. I didn't know if Charlotte was as aware. Perhaps she was used to their outdoor blunders?

"I won't be long Jean, just bronzing my shoulders." I lied through my teeth.

Truth be told, I detested with an ever burning passion what Charlotte was turning me into. Tiny, tight black swimming trunks, leaving very little to the imagination, and a tan now covering my well built and masculine frame. Britain's sunshine, or lack thereof, had left me somewhat pale in comparison to my American counterparts, and so Charlotte had bronzed me up and turned me into a picture perfect model of what the man on her shoulder should be. I quite liked being pale. There was nothing wrong with it. I was here to teach, and my looks were distracting enough to the girl-child's of my future classes without a tan causing them to go weak at the knees. Oh how I ached for the beginning of the school semester and myself behind a desk, privately writing on the bottom of said desk with my pen. Flowing ink inspired by the young muses in the front row.

Just then, as I sat in my own personal prison of perverted paradise, John Farlow slapped my back in a friendly and irritating fashion before shouting, "Last one in is a rotten egg!" He then dashed off, his slim and toned body, young and defined, but nowhere near the maturity of my own, dove off the edge of the pier and into the inky black surface of the water, silver ripples and an upwards splash that drenched his young wife. She gasped in exaggerated horror, making my mind shrink away, like a child covers their ears when nails are scratched down a blackboard. The sound of giggles, splashing around, and young marital bliss. Humbert felt positively ill.

Charlotte emerged from the water soon after, and retrieving her towel from beside her sandals, she walked over, dripping from head to toe, smelling ever so slightly stagnant.

"You okay, Hum?" She sounded genuinely concerned, I admired her courtesy.

"Yes dear, I'm quite alright."

"Good, because I wanted to talk to you about Lo." Her tone was serious now as she patted her legs and cellulite thighs dry.

I sat upright, her name sending a jolt of electricity up my spine, alerting my mind. "What of Lo?"

"I want a maid. You know, the kind that all the rich aristocrats have." The way she spoke gave me an instant disliking for her, giving off an air of snobbery, like even the thought of having a maid was sending her up a class on the ladder of high society.

Charlotte, my dear Charlotte, you live in your dead husband's home in the middle of Ramsdale, a forgotten town, and your daughter is anything _but _a young aristocrat.

"What about, Bertha?"

"What about her? She's not a maid, Hum, she's a cleaner, and a negro one at that!"

"She's good at her job."

"She does her job and that's as far as it goes. Guests see her and think I own a slave. I want guests to see a young European beauty in the traditional black dress and white apron combo. I don't want a slave, I want an employee!" Well well, Mrs Haze. Quite the businesswoman, aren't you?

My skin crawled with an abundance of spiders trying their hardest not to tear through my flesh, spin a web around Charlotte, thus suffocating and silencing her forever. They worked their way to my hands. I sat upon them. "I see... but even still, if you were to get one where would she sleep? A young European beauty cannot sleep on the couch my Dear."

Standing up, Charlotte allowed her evident rolls of excess meat to release. I imagined they would sigh with relief, if they could, after being released from that skin tight black thing Charlotte was wearing. It was supposed to shrink her waist whilst also lifting and separating her breasts. It did neither, and left Charlotte looking damp and undesirable. "She would have Lo's room." Charlotte continued as she dried her hair roughly with a towel.

"And where exactly would Lo sleep?"

"Little Lo I'm afraid doesn't come into the equation. In the Fall I plan to send her to an all girl's boarding school for strict religious training." That air of self assurance and smugness came back, a lump grew in my throat, and my hand was itching to be unleashed from beneath my firm derriere, in order to push her off that pier, jump in after her, and drown her for good. But the Farlows would surely see, and they too would have to be drowned, and three drowned bodies and one survivor would look awfully guilty. Calm hand, calm thyself!

"I beg your pardon?" These words came out in quite possibly the highest tone of voice my manly tongue could ever allow, quite possibly due to shock, and quite possibly because I felt sick.

"We both know she needs it Hum, even the Farlows have commented on how unruly she's become. It will do us all good, and you and I can finally have the house to ourselves. God knows that's what you and I need." On this note, she took the opportunity to place herself on my lap, her fat rump deflating my life further than it already was. She put an arm around my neck and began kissing my hair, stroking my ear hypnotically.

I shut my eyes and thought of my life, my light, my love... my Lolita.

Turning her head she saw me, my eyes shut, looking deep in concentration. My hands were still beneath me, tamed, held back from doing something they may regret. Leaning into me with breath that smelled of burnt breakfast and mints, she whispered "What you thinking, Hum?"

"Oh, just following a train of thought." I gulped, and continued to think. Lolita. Lolita. Lolita. Lolita. Continue until pen runs dry.

I swear I felt her tongue tickle the inside of my ear she was so close. The only woman my age to ever be so close to me in this way was good old Valeria, my dumb French wife, but she was more baby faced than Charlotte, and it was therefore more bearable. In a hushed, and miserably poor attempt at a sultry tone, she replied, "Am I on that train?"

If you were on that train Charlotte, it would be veering from the tracks violently and plummeting off a scenic canyon. "Yes, you are."

And then, for some unknown reason, be it God or stomach gas, an ingenious yet completely ludicrous idea came to me. As I sat there with my eyes shut, Lolita scorched onto the back of my retinas, my eyes suddenly flew open. They were met by the endless murk of the Lake before me, the rotten planks of wood on the dock, the moss covered capstan, the rust covered rope, and the thought of Hum and Charlotte's married life. All pretty frills, yet covered in moth holes. It was a disgustingly conventional thing for Humbert to do, and it pained him to do it, but there was no other way in which he would have a voice in the matters of Lo's life. The only way she would stay is if Hum had a say, and who better to listen to, to obey, than a husband?

"Charlotte would you marry me?" The words came out quicker than I had anticipated, and as romance-less as they seemed, Charlotte squealed with joy, might have added the word "yes" into that squeal, and then pinned me down onto the dock and smothered me with kisses.

I heard Jean and John Farlow applauding us from the water and laughing, I heard Charlotte whispering sweet nothing in my ear, and I heard my own heart pounding in my ribcage like a mallet. But through it all, I heard only one thing that I cared about... Lolita, Lolita, Lolita.


	6. Chapter 6

The marriage of poor Humbert and my mother was a rushed affair. Hum acted as though it was something scandalous which must be hidden, unlike my mother. He didn't care about guests and dresses and cake. Despite his disinterest, she continued to fuss until he finally put his foot down and convinced her to keep the whole sorry affair very small, and very private.

He wore his best suit and dutifully said his vows; but I could tell by the way he glanced at me in my pigtails and Sunday best that my mother was by no means the first Haze woman on his mind.

My mother was insufferably clingy in the next few weeks- she insisted that Humbert and I attend her fetes and brunches so that she could parade her perfect little family in front of the gossiping old harpies in her church group.

It was harder than ever for dear Hum and I to catch even a moment alone. When he followed the sound of my singing to the garden, my mother would be daintily perched on the porch, watching us through her sprinklers and behind her perfectly pruned rose bushes.

It seemed like every day she was up before me, and every day she was last to bed. Even when he was sitting at his desk, furiously scribbling his poetic musings into his journal- even then, she was there. Draped on his lap or his chair or his desk; my mother was an inescapable presence in the poor man's life.

Meanwhile, I seemed to become an inescapable burden in hers. She became increasingly impatient with me as every hour passed, as though she was worried that my mere presence would distract Humbert from his marital duties.

Finally- just a matter of weeks after their marriage- I encountered her plan to remove me from the equation. Although I was outraged, I cannot say I was surprised. I had seen the thoughts stewing in her head almost from the first time she had laid eyes on our handsome Englishman- and now she had the opportunity to execute her plans.

I awoke to the sounds of soft voices in the next room, and a strange mixture of curiosity and jealousy motivated me to crawl from bed to the hallway in order to better eavesdrop on their conversation. My mother tried so hard to exclude me from discussions between herself and her husband that the whole experience was oddly titillating to me.

A few feet from their bedroom door, I stopped. Humbert's morning voice was deep and husky, but it addressed my mother with a surprisingly sharp tone.

"Charlotte, you are being entirely unreasonable."

"No discipline!" hissed the responding voice of my mother. "Sticks her nose into everything. What she needs is a strict European upbringing to sort out her attitude. Why, you went to school in Europe and you turned out remarkably well-adjusted!"

Oh mother. You and your astounding ignorance.

"Please, Charlotte," replied Humbert- his tone softer now, almost pleading. "Don't send her overseas. She would be heartbroken- she would never forgive you."

There was a long pause. So monitoring our interactions wasn't enough? No. She needed me to be thousands of miles away before she could begin to feel secure.

"I'm just worried that you're not committed to our marriage, Hum." Her use of my nickname for him was jarring. "She's… a distraction."

I heard a laboured sigh from Humbert. "She's nothing of the sort… But if it would make you happier, we could always send her to camp. Summer camp. There must be one in the state? After all, it would get her out of the house."

_Betrayal._

"Truly? You don't mind?"

"Ah, Charlotte," sighed Humbert, "I would do anything to keep you happy, my dear."

I crawled back to my room and slid under the sheets, the beginnings of tears pricking my eyes. I was conflicted- Humbert had saved me from death row, but was all the while condemning me to a life sentence. Sure, I wasn't being sent to England to have some old hag preach to me about etiquette, but I was still being sent away alone.

Perhaps I had been wrong about him, and my girlish fancy had created an ersatz love for me with no bidding from the object of my affections. The thought troubled me, but I didn't get much time to consider it.

Packing me off to camp was done quickly and with a businesslike manner- my mother saw to that. She didn't heed my protests, proceeding to pack a suitcase whilst dodging the flying limbs of my flailing tantrum.

I bitterly resigned myself to my fate, sulking on the porch swing; contemplating a summer without my friends, or my home… or my Humbert. Just as I rose to go sulk in the cooler indoor air, he emerged through the French doors carrying a tray of iced lemonade. I sat back down.

"Lo…" he began hesitantly, setting the tray down and perching next to me on the swing. He glanced over at me, and guiltily handed me a glass.

"You betrayed me. You _let_ her send me away," I said accusingly. He frowned to himself, slowly putting his glass of lemonade back on the tray, and laying a cool hand on my thigh. For a moment, he said nothing. I refused to look at him- focusing my gaze on the stuttering sprinkler creating misty rainbows on the lawn.

"Dolly, I did that to protect you. I swear it," he urged. There was another long pause, and I switched my gaze to him. "You're the most precious thing in my life. I love you. I live for you."

"My mother-"

"No… She's a delightful woman, to be sure. But she isn't you, Lo. She can never be you."

I shouldn't have believed him, but there was a deep sincerity about the way he looked into my eyes as he spoke these words. It made me wonder why I ever doubted the love he felt for me.

I swallowed hard. "Oh Hum... you dirty old man." I smiled at him playfully. He didn't smile back.

Instead, his hand slid up my thigh, molasses slow, crawling beneath the hem of my skirt as he leaned closer to me. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, and his cold hands inching up my leg, towards-

"Dolores!" called my mother from inside. Humbert snapped away from me, and was suddenly standing bolt upright on the porch, I quickly straightened my skirt as my formidable mother strode outside to join us.

"Your things are packed; we're leaving soon. Go and make sure I haven't missed anything," she said impatiently. Silently, I went to my room. A few moments later, I heard a loud click as the latch on the door to Humbert's study was snapped shut. I smiled to myself, gaining some satisfaction from the thought that I wasn't the only one being denied his company. I didn't even glance at my hastily packed suitcase before I flopped down on top of my sheets, defeated.

The time finally came when my mother came to retrieve my case and my sulking self in order to transfer both of us to the waiting car. The door to Humbert's study was open again, but he refused to look up as I walked past. He sat silently at his desk, scribbling in his journal and frowning to himself.

As I opened the door to the car- where my mother was already waiting- I had a sudden, bold thought. "Wait, mother!" I gasped as I slammed the door shut again, running as fast as I could manage into the house and bounding up the stairs, oblivious to my mother's protests. I stopped, panting, in the doorway of Humbert's little study. He rose, staring at me as he moved from behind his oversized writing desk.

We stood; victims of the tension that was almost palpable in the air, unable to move. All at once I broke the terrible stillness, leaping into his arms and clumsily pressing my lips to his. For just a second, I felt him stiffen- but then he too gave in to the tension and suddenly he was kissing me back. They were open mouthed, desperate, gasping kisses which were at once gentle and urgent, sloppy and sweet, fast and yet achingly, beautifully slow. They were uniquely Humbert and Lolita kisses; uniquely ours, and that's what made them so made-to-measure perfect.

I jumped down in my haste to get back to mother, and our perfect coupling was over almost as soon as it began. I turned to leave, bolting along the hallway to the stairs. "Lo!" he yelled after me. "Lolita!"

I paused on the landing, anxious to stay and yet anxious to go.

"I love you."

And that was all I needed to know.


End file.
